


Inevitable

by chaleesi



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note: Another Note
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mild Sexual Content, One Shot, discussion of murder and death, misa deserves a pet cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:53:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28408803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaleesi/pseuds/chaleesi
Summary: “Are you going to kill me?”“Why would I do that?”“I thought about killing you.”
Relationships: Amane Misa/Beyond Birthday
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in 2015 and had to perform necromancy on my old laptop to get it back. 
> 
> Hoping that there are some other people out there who ship B and Misa lmao

He has seen her in magazines and on the television. He has seen her blown up to gigantic proportions and displayed on billboards all over the city. She is a tiny thing, dressed like a doll, with huge, bright eyes. When he sees her in real life for the first time, she is even tinier than he had imagined.  
  
She is doing a photo-shoot in a crowded street, the rush and blur of the city serving as a backdrop. Her hair is pinned up in big curls, her arms adorned with bangles, her dress a hideous mess of frills and bows. Such a small person would seem fragile, but he notices her ability to hold a pose for extraordinary lengths of time. There is strength in her. She looks as though she has frozen in that one particular moment, still amidst the chaos surrounding her.  
  
The smile she wears is bright, fitting that bubbly persona. She speaks loudly and in a high pitch, gesticulating wildly. Everything about her is over-exaggerated; she is dazzling and sickly sweet.  
  
He watches her, fascinated. He watches the way she moves her arms and body around, as though she is trying to take up as much room as she possibly can in the world. He watches the way her smile fades briefly when she thinks no one can see. He watches the way her restless eyes flicker from person to person and to the spot just above their heads, as though she can see something there that no one else can.  
  
He isn’t sure exactly how he knows, but he knows.  
  
***  
  
It is relatively simple for him to find out where she lives. And once he knows that, it is easy for him to arrange a time that they just might happen to meet.  
  
It is a Thursday afternoon, a little after four. She steps into the lift, not sparing him a glance. She is wearing little makeup and dressed in an inconspicuous manner – dark leggings and an oversized fur-collared jacket. She looks tired.  
  
“Misa Amane?” he asks.  
  
He sees the almost imperceptible tensing of her shoulders as she looks at him and then away again.  
  
“I’m a huge fan,” he adds.  
  
“Misa can give you an autograph, but no photos today.” Her cheerful tone sounds strained, her smile looks forced. She reaches into her heart-shaped bag.  
  
“That’s not what I want,” he tells her.  
  
Her gaze drifts to somewhere just above him as she twirls a pen between glossy, pink nails. He smiles widely, baring his teeth.  
  
“And what do you want?”  
  
“To talk.”  
  
Her own smile never falters, but her eyes are distant as they meet his.  
  
“I believe we see the world in the same way,” he says, keeping his voice low.  
  
She makes no movement other than to grip her pen tighter as he steps closer.  
  
“Your doorman,” he murmurs, “He hasn’t got long left, has he? Probably less than two days.”  
  
The widening of her eyes and the shock that she quickly suppresses are the only answers he needs.  
  
“Do you understand me?”  
  
She lets out a trill laugh and turns away. “Misa doesn’t know what you’re talking about. And that’s not a very nice thing to say!”  
  
The lift doors open and she breezes away.  
  
***  
  
A week later he sits in a cafe he knows she frequents, at a table he knows she’ll see as soon as she walks in. At approximately half past eleven she enters, looking around and hesitating when she spots him. Then she is sliding into the seat opposite, unceremoniously dumping her bag on the table and huffing loudly. He watches as she reapplies her lip gloss.  
  
“I sent you flowers,” he says.  
  
“Oh, those were from _you_?”  
  
He had sent a bouquet of roses to her agency: blue for mystery, black for death, white for reverence and loyalty.  
  
“How is your doorman?”  
  
“Apparently he was in a car crash,” she pouts, “And I don’t like the new one, he’s very rude to me.”  
  
He will not say if he had any involvement in said car crash, he simply watches in silence as she finishes touching up her make-up and fiddling around in her bag. Then she snaps it shut with a sharp, metallic click and looks at him.  
  
“Well,” she snaps, “You could at least buy me a coffee.”  
  
***  
  
“Are you going to kill me?” she asks.  
  
They are walking through a public garden. It is cherry blossom season. He thinks it could be romantic if they wanted it to be.  
  
“Why would I do that?”  
  
“I thought about killing you” she tells him with a sweet smile.  
  
“I’m not going to. It’s not your time yet.” He turns to her, looking her in the eyes. “Besides, you’re the only one like me.”  
  
“Yes. We’re special, aren’t we?”  
  
“Perhaps. Or we just got unlucky.”  
  
She spins around under a tree as the breeze shakes a cascade of blossoms loose. She laughs and her skirt swirls around her.  
  
“It’s our little secret,” he says.  
  
***  
  
He tells her about his childhood; tells her about the orphanages and the hospitals and the boarding school in England. He doesn’t tell her about L. Some things he will keep to himself.  
  
She shows him the notebook.  
  
They sit on a bench in the park, watching people pass by. A father with a pushchair and a screaming child. A group of European tourists. An elderly couple walking hand in hand. Two women jogging. She points out a middle-aged man who passes them, holding a styrofoam cup in one hand and a mobile phone in the other. He seems to be spitting words down the line, his face twisted with disgust. There are enough numbers over his head to grant him at least another decade of life.  
  
“You know him already?” he asks.  
  
“I know what he did to my friend,” she replies, “And I know he works over the street from here.”  
  
She writes his name down in precise, little pen strokes. They watch the man hurrying out of the gates and crossing the busy main road. There is a squeal of tires, followed by screams. Not too long after there are the sirens of an ambulance.  
  
He tightens his fingers over his knees, gripping onto the fabric of his jeans. There is a rushing in his brain, like static, like white noise, and a feeling he doesn’t quite have a name for rises up in his chest. To have such power, to take someone’s life before their time is up, with such ease, so calmly and casually... She is a goddess.  
  
“You could do it too,” she says.  
  
He thinks she might pass him the notebook, but she doesn’t. She keeps it on her lap, tapping the pages with manicured fingernails. It is hers and hers alone.  
  
“No I couldn’t,” he tells her anyway. He wouldn’t take a life. Not like that. He would wait until their time had ebbed away, the numbers ticking down to zero.  
  
She doesn’t question his reasons.  
  
***  
  
She finds a tabby cat near the bins of her apartment building. It has golden eyes and a patch of white fur in the shape of a heart. He doesn’t like it much; its hair gets all over his clothes and it likes to stick its claws into him. But she adores it.  
  
“You know, someone probably owned it,” he tells her, “You’ve stolen someone’s cat.”  
  
“Well she’s mine now,” she says, “Finders keepers. And you love me, don’t you? You’re going to stay with Misa, right?”  
  
She lavishes little kisses all over its head, and the feline seems to delight in the attention.  
  
“I killed a cat once.”  
  
“If you kill my kitty, I’ll kill you,” she says brightly.  
  
She names it Suki.  
  
***  
  
Sometimes she has nightmares. She curls tightly in on herself, like a creature with a hard shell, as if she might grow protective spikes. Occasionally her shoulders tremble and shudder. The first few times he wakes her, and she scratches at his arms and forces him away.  
  
He learns to leave her be. Let her wake of her own volition, whereupon she pulls herself from the bed and wanders the apartment, checking that the doors and windows are locked.  
  
Tonight he helps her. Everything is secure, as always – she is fastidious about it. Suki follows her around like a bodyguard, and hisses at him if he gets too close. He would be tempted to kick it, but he is loath to admit he has grown rather fond of the little thing.  
  
She rubs at her eyes wearily, smudging the eyeliner she didn’t properly remove. They go back to bed and she presses herself against his side, resting her head on his shoulder and hooking a leg between his.  
  
“What do you dream about?” he asks.  
  
“My parents,” she replies.  
  
He doesn’t ask again, just waits patiently. He knows she will speak, and knows how to tease the answers from her if he feels she is taking too long, knows how to press his fingernails into old scars and draw fresh blood.  
  
“They were killed by a burglar,” she says eventually. Her voice is softer and quieter, different from the voice she puts on in public.  
  
He rests his cheek against the top of her head. Her hair smells like vanilla.  
  
When she speaks again she does so haltingly but firmly. “He broke into our house. My parents tried to confront him. I saw him kill them from the top of the stairs. He didn’t see me. I hid in my wardrobe and called the police. There was so much blood...”  
  
She stops, tensing and turning her face away from him. He starts to wrap his arms tighter around her, but she pushes him away and gets out of bed again, exhaling shakily. Suki winds her way between her ankles, and she picks her up and presses her face against the soft brown fur.  
  
“I used to wish he’d killed me too,” she whispers.  
  
He sits up, feeling a cold angry weight settle in his stomach at the thought of his world without her in it. She is beautiful and she is powerful and he is drawn to her like he has always been drawn to death.  
  
“The trial was being dragged on and on. I wasn’t sure I could keep going.” she continues, “And then I found the notebook.”  
  
He’s heard part of this story before. About how the note fell to the street in front of her. About the shinigami that came with it, tall and white and skeletal. He knows it was the shinigami who gifted her with the eyes, and he knows that the shinigami later died, sacrificing itself for her life.  
  
Misa Amane truly is something special, to attract creatures of death, to make them love her. He is only a little jealous to know he is not the first.  
  
She sits back on the bed, crossing her legs, looking at him seriously.  
  
“I killed him,” she says. “The burglar. The man who took everything from me. He was the first. It was the easiest decision I ever made.”  
  
He gazes into her eyes. Maybe it's the lighting, maybe he’s kidding himself, but there are times he’s convinced he can see a flash of red there.  
  
“You brought justice,” he says.  
  
That statement makes her laugh; not her usual light giggle, but something short and sharp and with an underlying bitterness.  
  
“That’s something he would say,” she mutters.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“No one. He’s dead now.”  
  
***  
  
Misa Amane wants to be adored. That is not unusual, but he thinks maybe she is the only one who deserves it.  
  
They keep the lights low and he presses his skin against hers and she leaves stinging scratches on his back. Her breaths are hot and fast against his jaw as he holds her down. His large hands easily pin her wrists, envelope her waist, wrap around her throat.  
  
She loves it. She is selfish and loud, which is not usually his type, but he lets her have what she wants. Teeth and lips draw forth bruises and blood, and the feel of her racing pulse sends a thrill through him.  
  
He adores her as best as he can, with calloused fingers and hard kisses, watching as she shakes and tears leak from her eyes. She is beautiful.  
  
***  
  
Seeing death everywhere you go twists a person into something else. He supposes he must have been normal once, before he understood. It would be too long ago for him to remember. As far as he knows, he has always been sad and twisted and angry.  
  
It is different for Misa. He wonders if she will become like him over time.  
  
He wonders this aloud to her, while he sits in the bathtub that is too small for his long limbs, eyes closed and head bowed as she works black dye into his hair. She says she doesn’t know what he means.  
  
“I was sad and twisted and angry too, even before this,” she says, and her fingers dig into his scalp harder than before.  
  
“You’re not like me.”  
  
She hums thoughtfully, running her fingers through his hair. “Maybe I’m worse than you.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“I’ve killed more people than you,” she replies, “But then again, your murders are much more cruel and violent than mine.”  
  
“They were going to die anyway.”  
  
“Yes, but they could have died in other ways. You chose to end their lives like that.”  
  
“Or it was inevitable, and they would always die by my hand. I am merely doing what I was predestined to do.”  
  
“And what am I predestined to do?”  
  
She moves away from him, peeling the cheap plastic gloves from her hands and standing to throw them away. He gazes up at her.  
  
“I could kill anyone,” she says,” I could get on a train, look around me, and kill all the people in the carriage until I’m the only one left. Would that be their destiny? Or mine?”  
  
“You have a gift that is beyond destiny.”  
  
“Or this whole destiny thing is stupid.”  
  
He disagrees, but he smiles at her anyway. “You’ve changed my world,” he says.  
  
She rolls her eyes, but she is smiling too.  
  
***  
  
There is a storm outside, rain battering a rhythm on the floor-to-ceiling windows of her new apartment. He sits next to her on the sofa, and she swings her legs to rest atop his. He curls his hands around her knees, using his fingertips to trace circles on the soft skin there.  
  
Her eyes flicker to the space just above his head. She’s been doing that a lot lately.  
  
“Are you going to kill me?” he asks.  
  
He expects her to shriek and hit him and ask how he can say something so horrible. That's what she would usually do.  
  
Instead she just quietly says: “No, I am not going to kill you.”  
  
They listen to the rain for a few minutes. A tired warmth is settling through his bones, and he relaxes back into the cushions, feeling his eyelids droop. For a moment he wonders if he has ever let himself get this comfortable before. It's so mundane.  
  
“Are you going to kill me?”  
  
“No, I’m not. It’s not your time.” It’s his usual reply.  
  
“But when it is my time, you will. That's your plan, right?”  
  
He turns his head to look at her, but she is not glaring or pouting at him like he expects. She looks serene. Thoughtful.  
  
“My plan?” He repeats.  
  
“When my time gets to zero, you’ll be there, and you’ll kill me.”  
  
It is a thought that has sat heavy in his chest for some time. Ideas that claw through his mind in the middle of the night as she sleeps next to him, and as he follows her to her shoots and watches her from a distance, and as they sit in restaurants and drink a little too much, and as she lies under him in the dark with her hands at his throat, and as he passes her toothbrush to her in the morning. There is the how, but there is also the _why_.  
  
“I don’t think I’d mind,” she says, “As long as you make it nice. Not a lot of blood.”  
  
“There isn’t a nice way to die.”  
  
He would know. And so would she.  
  
Her eyes dart upwards once more.  
  
“Maybe I won’t get that chance.”  
  
She moves forwards until she is sitting in his lap, wrapping one arm about his shoulders. He rests his hands on her waist, relaxing once again with her soft, warm weight against him. She presses a chaste kiss to his cheek and whispers “No, you won’t.”  
  
  
  



End file.
